


nothing in this world i wouldn't do

by eichart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Brotherly Love, No Incest, Platonic Soulmates, Self-Harm, but non-suicidal intentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 01:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11002899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eichart/pseuds/eichart
Summary: Willy is born on the first of May, three crowns marked down his small shoulder –soulmark dark on pale skin. His father cradles him and laughs; Swedish blood strong even on Calgary soil.Alex is born a year, ten months, and a day later; also on Calgary soil, also cradled in his father’s arms, but with blank expanses of newborn skin, markless and unblemished.That itself is not so much a consternation. Perhaps Willy is the more miracle of the two –not often are children born with marks nowadays, normally they take a few days ( a few weeks, a few months ) to develop.Some take years.Alex’s comes never –or so everyone believes.





	nothing in this world i wouldn't do

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really ecstatic that this fic is finally done! It started out as a quick idea and next thing I knew it was at 1000 words and I just went, dang, guess I better keep going. Some facts are a little wonky, and I don't address some events, but hey, this is fic and I can bend the universe to my will. Hope you enjoy!

 

Willy is born on the first of May, three crowns marked down his small shoulder –soulmark dark on pale skin. His father cradles him and laughs; Swedish blood strong even on Calgary soil.

Alex is born a year, ten months, and a day later; also on Calgary soil, also cradled in his father’s arms, but with blank expanses of newborn skin, markless and unblemished.

That itself is not so much a consternation. Perhaps Willy is the more miracle of the two –not often are children born with marks nowadays, normally they take a few days ( a few weeks, a few months ) to develop.

Some take years.

Alex’s comes never –or so everyone believes.

…

Alex is four when he first asks about the mark on his brother’s shoulder, chubby fingers poking at dark lines. He already has half an inch of height on Willy, but Willy has this on him still and he sees it as incredibly unfair.

There’s still a part of him, though, that finds the sight of the three crowns beautiful, even then.

He asks when he’ll get his, because even _Jackie_ at two years old has her soulmark. “Soon,” they say.

They’re wrong.

They’re all wrong.

…

Ninety-eight percent of the world’s population gets their soulmarks by age twelve.

Alex is in that two percent that _doesn’t_ , apparently.

He puts his head down, bites his tongue. Stops asking.

…

Alex is three days turned fifteen when his mark finally starts coming in ( _late,_ so late –but better late than never, right? ).

It’s only a fuzzy sort of shape on his wrist, still too faint to make out –but it’s _exciting_ , so of course he tells Willy not ten minutes later. They stare at the hazy blur, trying to will it into clarity, but it remains a stubborn haze, something like a coffee stain only slightly darker than pale skin –Alex might even think it to be if it didn’t remain stubborn in the shower.

It’s such a _relief_ in this world that seems to revolve around soulmarks, that looks to them for completeness, for competence. Even at fifteen Alex knows this. And the thrill that runs through him at the first hint of that thing that will finally make him _normal_ , Alex will never forget that –those few weeks he never thought he’d rather think himself markless.

They decide to keep quiet about it from Mom and Dad and the girls until it finally comes in. Excited as he is, Alex doesn’t actually _want_ to deal with the screaming and the questions and the _talk_ right now. He wanted Willy to share in the initial excitement and now he much rather beat Willy’s ass in ball hockey.

Alex would never know how grateful he would be for that decision.

( He also loses dramatically in ball hockey and hurls the stick in the direction of Willy’s head ).

…

Willy is just turned seventeen when Alex wakes to the mark on his wrist shifted into stubborn clarity. And for a moment all he can do is blink sleep from his eyes and shake the grogginess from his head, because _no,_ _that’s not possible._ It must be a joke, sneaky Willy in the night with a fine-tip Sharpie. But it’s not a joke when he’s in the shower and no amount of scrubbing budges the black lines, only turns his skin an irritated red and sends his heart into an erratic beat.

Crowns. Three of them set in a neat little row down his wrist. _Familiar_ because he’s spent years poking at the same mark on Willy’s shoulder, asking when he’s going to get his.

Alex panics, because _it can’t be right_ , and oh god, what will people say –what will _Willy,_ so eager to meet his soulmate, think?

It’s wrong. It’s _wrong._

( He’s _wrong_ ).

( Is he _broken_? )

His throat runs dry and it feels like his ribs are constricting around his lungs in an unforgiving vice driven by hysteria. _Breathe, Alex_ , he thinks, fingers running through the sleep tangles in his hair as he tries to remember what _calm_ feels like. _Think_. He grabs every bracelet he can find from his dresser and nightstand and layers them carefully on his wrist. The crowns disappear beneath the string and leather and plastic and the constriction in his chest lessens just a little. But he can still feel it –a brand burning into his skin, his memory.

It’s _wrong_. Maybe it’ll continue to change, maybe it’s not done developing.

…

“How’s your soulmark coming along?” Willy asks him two days later when they’re playing ping pong in the basement.

Alex freezes, lets the white ball sail past him to _click, click, click_ against the floor. He forces himself not to touch his bracelet wrapped wrist –still feels the roughness of the cloth he used to try to scrub it away. Shrugs. “It’s gone now,” he says nonchalantly, “Must’ve been a tan line or something.”

It’s the first big lie he’s ever told Willy; the only one that matters.

He doesn’t like how it tastes.

…

( Willy probably knows he’s lying, but at least he doesn’t pry; it stings, but soulmarks are personal and this is _Alex_ after all, who knows what’s going on in that kid’s head ).

…

Months pass. It doesn’t change.

…

A year later Willy turns eighteen and laments that he hasn’t met his soulmate even though he’s still so _young_.

A year later the mark on Alex’s wrist is still a trio of little Swedish crowns in a neat row, buried beneath foundation and cloth and leather.

Willy never covers his mark, wears it with a sort of unabashed pride Alex wishes he too had. The thing is he still thinks it beautiful when he sees it on Willy’s shoulder; that hasn’t changed with the years. He just hates the way it looks on his own skin.

Some days he wonders if Willy _knew_ if there would still be that unabashed pride.

Some days he can’t stop himself from staring at it.

…

He thinks about telling sometimes, late at night as he watches water slip over his mark. He thinks about the stories of completeness and euphoria and joy; he thinks about Willy who wants to meet his soulmate so _badly_ –almost more than he wants to make it big with skates on his feet and a stick in his hand.

But perhaps it is that simple fact that keeps Alex silent.

Hockey is an insular world, a world built on perfect straight-lace rules. Locker rooms talk and echo, and the conversations sound the same no matter where they are. They say things like ‘gay’ and ‘homo’ like ridicule and curses. Everything is talk and no action; sometimes _talk_ is all there is ( the most _dangerous_ thing there is ).

They don’t like things that are different in the slightest. Purity has been engrained too deep; it’s in the very _marrow_ of the culture.

There was a rumor once, of a player with a mark that matched his sister’s, their markings a smattering of silver stars. They didn’t match, different constellations, different lives, different destinies. But rumors are enough. The idea alone is enough.

“Can you imagine being matched to a sibling?” Someone throws out one day. Alex focuses on shedding his pads, but there’s nothing he can do to block out the responses.

“That’s fucking gross, dude.”

“Damn, how much of a let down would that be? Waitin’ your whole life for the person that completes you, and you find out it’s your little sister? Fuck no.”

“Can that even happen?”

 _Yes_ , thinks Alex, gauze clinging to sweaty skin, a cobweb frail bit of fabric that covers the shame branded into his wrist. “Dunno.” He says instead, because here being silent is worse. The gauze may cover his mark, but it does little to mitigate the shame pooling hot in his gut.

He was scared when his mark came in; he’s scared now knowing he was _right._

He doesn’t really think of telling after that.

…

The thing is Alex doesn’t love Willy like _that._ Loves him, yes –as surely as the sun seeps over the horizon, as steady as the _snick_ of blades across ice. But that love of _soulmates_ , the kind that seems to trail the word around and around and around; it’s not _that_ sort of love.

There are some days that Alex does think Willy completes him, though. Willy’s always sort of completed him, has always known what he’s thinking, has always been able to read what he doesn’t say in the line of his shoulders and ripples of irises.

And Alex knows Willy best. He’s not ashamed to say that, either.

They know each other too well, and some days Alex thinks it’s a miracle that he’s managed to keep his secret under something as simple as a handful of bracelets.

…

In Philadelphia, Willy is drafted eighth overall to Toronto.

In the moments leading up to it, Alex doesn’t know who’s more nervous, him or Willy; all he _knows_ is the way relief breaks through the tension as ‘ _William Nylander’_ rings throughout the arena, a name mixed with applause and pride and promise.

He hugs him, firm, lovingly. Remains quiet about the mark on his wrist.

There’s no masking the joy in his eyes, though.

…

Alex moves to Mississagua, learns to play on a smaller rink and loves the way it makes things feel faster.

Nate and Mikey have the same soulmark; some pointy, twisted arrow-like thing on their right ankles. It’s both the worst kept secret on the team and the best kept secret in the league. He sees them sometimes, a tad too close, movements so perfectly in sync on and off the ice. And for a moment, he _wants_ and thinks about telling again, because if anyone would get it, Alex thinks they might.

The bracelets remain in place though; because fear is an unforgiving master and he can’t seem to find the courage or the words.

…

There are some days he wants to cut it out because it feels dirty, _wrong_ , like it shouldn’t be branded into his skin.

He tries once, late at night, knife in hand.

He doesn’t get very far before he learns he can’t find it within himself to do it. A shallow cut slashing through the middle of the crowns is all he has to show for his attempt. _This_ is more than just cleaving a bit of skin from your wrist. He sits on the bathroom floor and stares at the red welling up against pale skin and black lines. They turn red when one half of a pair dies, you know, and Alex watches the red of his veins spill ( watches the lines of elegant crowns remain dark, dark, dark ).

Soulmarks weren’t made to be removed.

The next day Willy shows up to their apartment in Mississauga and eats all their popcorn, legs thrown across Alex’s as they engage in some lengthy movie marathon.

“Hey, you’re never going to believe what happened yesterday.” Willy says later, sounding casual and pulling his feet from Alex’s lap. He goes to tug up his shirt sleeve, and Alex knows what’s coming even before he sees it ( can still feel the knife in his hand and steel in his skin ). Sure enough, the blue sleeve twitches up to reveal a few bandaids half covering the crowns. Through the roar in his ears Alex can barely hear Willy saying something about how he was eating dinner and the next wincing in pain.

 _It’s a coincidence,_ Alex thinks. But the cut on his wrist still stings against the bandaging, twinging with every movement in some sadistic reminder.

It’s not a coincidence. He knows this.

He knows, too, that Willy did not come here to eat their popcorn and annoy Alex by putting his feet in his lap.

( He knew the moment Willy tromped in without a knock; _knew_ from the glint in blue eyes and the not-quite-there smiles that something had been bothering him ).

“Do you think –do you think it was my soulmate? Do you think they tried to –you know—“ Willy looks lost, uncertain, eyes filled with something like sadness. Alex wants to throw up because he knows what Willy isn’t saying, and _he_ did this. _He_ put the gash in Willy’s arm and planted the doubt in his mind. Willy looks forlorn and stares at his fingertips and oh god, this is not what Alex wanted at all.

But he’s still scared. Loves Willy, but still hears what’s said day after day, still wraps bracelets around his wrist, and still believes the world would hate them, that _Willy_ would hate him if he knew.

( And god, he loves Willy too much to risk letting that happen ).

He swallows, tries to be casual about it even as his heart clatters unsteadily against his ribs. “Nah, it was ---probably an accident or something. Maybe it’s on their foot or something and they dropped a knife. or were, were crawling around sharp metal. or _something_ . It doesn’t have to be _that_ , Willy. Plenty of accidents happen and all.”

Willy look slightly placated at that, and Alex feels like he’s drowning in lies, in guilt, chained to the bottom of the ocean by this thing on his wrist and what he wants and what the world likes to dictate.

He forces himself to remember how to breathe and curls up under Willy’s arm to watch the rest of the movie –tells himself he still deserves this.

He never tries again after that.

…

His soulmark is the only lie he’s ever told. The only one that’s persisted throughout the years, but some days his soulmark feels like his whole life. Everywhere he turns he cannot escape it: at home, on the rink, inside the confines of his head. Society is built on a foundation made of soulmarks, the news is nothing but the sweet meeting of pairs, it makes the daily locker room gossip.

He never says much about it.

But sometimes by lying he feels like he’s throwing his whole life off balance.

…

They both get the call for World Juniors and Alex can see his joy mirrored in Willy’s face.

There’s an ‘A’ before their name on his jersey. Willy does not have a ‘W’ before his, but it’s alright. It’s always alright.

He’s dreamt about this: sharing the ice with Willy, the way they’d fit like they have since he started to walk ( the way they _fit_ like matching marks dictate them to be ). And it’s beautiful, more beautiful than any dream, really; far better than he could have imagined.

And it hurts when it’s over all too soon. One goal, two shifts, sixteen minutes of a game gone by and it’s all over with one dirty hit. It _hurts_ to watch it happen not meters away from him; the twist in his stomach and the red in his vision as Willy hits the ice too hard and all _wrong_ . It _hurts_ , and Alex _wants_ and if anything he dreams of it more after that. Because he’s gotten a taste of what it’s like and doesn’t want to let go.

There’s still an ‘A’ before their name when Willy is pulled from the tourney.

Alex wears it like a promise.

…

He forgets about it sometimes –somehow. When they’re doing drills at the rink or golfing or just driving downtown and Willy does something that makes him laugh his ass off. The imprint of tri-pointed crows fades briefly from memory; bracelets are just bracelets.

Willy’s good at making him forget.

Ironic, isn’t it?

…

Alex turns eighteen quietly.

His parents still think he’s markless; the _world_ still thinks him markless, and he lets them believe it. It’s easier.

He doesn’t know what Willy thinks.

What he does know is Willy turns twenty, Alex chirps him for being old, and Willy starts to cover his soulmark. “It’s easier,” he tells Alex, “Especially with the hype and the never ending cameras of the NHL. It’s just easier.”

There’s a look in his eyes when he says it though, and Alex stays quiet. Lets him have this, lets him focus on hockey even as he’s digging fingernails between leather bracelets into his soulmark below.

…

There are some days when two years feels like an eternity, and some days when it feels like no time at all. It _feels_ like he waits an eternity for his draft day, but when it finally comes, it’s like he’s just gotten home from Willy’s ( still high off the nerves and the whirl of promising future ).

It always seems like things take forever to inch closer on the calendar, and then all too soon it’s his turn to embrace his promising future.

‘ _I’m not nervous,_ ’ he tells reporters the day before, sitting on a stool on a windy Buffalo pier. It’s not a lie when he tells it then, not really. But it’s a lie against himself. Because night creeps around and there’s so much darkness and _space_ for wandering thoughts; room for _what ifs_ and constricting scenarios. It’s too easy to want comfort, to slip from bed and walk the three hotel floors that separate him from Willy.

“Where do you think I’ll go?” He asks, fingers picking at the wooden frame of Willy’s hotel room door.

He knows what he wants the answer to be: _Toronto_ , Willy’s soon to be home. But Toronto with the first overall pick is not where he’ll be going –not when there’s a boy named Auston Matthews taking the world by storm. Alex knows this.

Willy’s looking at him, quiet, sprawled against an excess of pillows piled against the headboard. Alex doesn’t want an answer, not really –because it doesn’t _matter;_ he’ll be happy to go anywhere. But still, he seeks assurance. “Somewhere great.” Willy says after a moment, and there’s pride there in his voice, in the gaze turned up from the salmon colored phone abandoned on the bedspread. There's warmth in Alex's stomach.

He sits on Willy’s bed without invitation and they talk until Alex falls asleep on the horribly floral bedspread. When he wakes up hours later Willy has curled up beside him, half pressed against Alex’s side, a blanket pulled up around both their legs. Willy stirs, voice sleep clogged as he says, “But you’re still gunna go lower than me.”

Alex laughs, content. Shifts and shuts his eyes.

…

It’s always like that because they’re brothers and Nylanders and everything has always been a competition; being better runs in their blood.

His desire to go higher than Willy is rooted in no sense of spite; Willy’s vocal declarations that he’s going to go lower aren’t really ploys to deprecate self-esteem. They thrive on competition, on conflict, on _this._

( There is, too, the true definition of competition: to strive together. That’s what they do, strive together ).

Maybe it’s silly to measure their worth by a number, an _order_ that really means so little across years. They do it anyway.

In the end, all their arguing is for nothing though, because they both managed to overlook the third possibility: both going eighth.

…

Buffalo is a seven letter name; so is Toronto. Mirror cities, mirror rivals across a lake mirror to the one he’s grown familiar with from Willy’s Skype calls and his season with the Steelheads.

He thinks, _Alright_ . Smiles into the bright lights and the sea of blue and gold that will hopefully be _his_ someday, and yeah, it’s pretty fucking awesome. Not everyone has the privilege of being drafted in the city you’re going to play for.

He goes through the gauntlet in a daze; colors, photos, sounds, interviews half-remembered, all punctuated by his family at the end; by _Willy_ at the end with his arms wrapped tight around him again, voice quiet in his ear.

It doesn’t feel wrong, not then.

He looks at Willy’s smile, the unmistakable pride glinting in his eyes, and is torn between wishing he was markless and wishing he could have this.

…

It’s on the Amerks of all places that he learns about platonic soulmates.

Justin Bailey has a soulmate back in Williamsville: a sweet girl with a nice smile whose picture is set as his lockscreen. Alex asks when they’re going to get married, words like ash in his mouth. Justin looks at him weird and tells him they’re not like that.

 _Oh_ , Alex thinks, and maybe then does the mark he keeps secret ( loves and loathes ) start to feels a little _less_ like a curse.

His mark is still there when he unwinds his bracelets, black lines a little broken by a white scar. Most nights he looks at it and wishes it _gone;_ that night he looks at it and thinks, _maybe_.

…

Willy hooks up with people even though they’re not his soulmates. He says there’s something freeing about it; the unmatching marks and the way they know it’s not going to work in the long run. Alex thinks it sounds a bit lonely, but what does he know.

There was a girl back in Sweden too when he was seventeen. A sweet thing that didn’t have a mark that matched Willy’s, but they thought that maybe they could overcome it. Alex watched as Willy took her to Paris, not exactly jealous, but melancholy – _knowing_. They didn’t work out in the end, she found her real soulmate and Willy was heartbroken. Alex had done the comforting that night, ironically.

And there’s Kasperi Kapenan who has a nice model girlfriend with a mark that matches him. But Kappy means _something_ to Willy. He still isn’t sure what Kappy is to Willy after all these seasons, this self-proclaimed bromance, but he’s glad his brother has him; Kappy seems to take his mind off the whole soulmate ordeal.

…

“What’s it like being markless?” Willy asks one day, and Alex goes all cold. Because he’s not. What he has feels worse than being markless some days –because at least the markless have some freedom to choose. What Alex has is a secret that chains him down and makes him feel guilty for every hug, every evening he spends under Willy’s arm.

He shrugs, “Like being free, I guess.” And he wants that almost more than he wants to have this completeness with Willy.

“I wish I was markless.” says Willy.

 _Me too,_ Alex thinks and can’t meet his eyes.

…

Auston Matthews is a name Alex cannot escape –on the radio, on Sportsnet, on Willy’s lips.

There’s something _else_ in Willy’s voice when he talks about Auston –something like he wants it to work but it can’t ( undeniable truths carved dark into the flesh of his shoulder ).

Willy insists that Alex meets Auston, and Alex isn’t exactly _unenthused_ to meet the newest prodigy in the league, hit ‘em with four, good ol’ desert boy that Willy talks of fondly over Skype –in Swedish because he insists that Auston doesn’t need his ego stoked.

No, the issue is he wants them to talk because Auston Matthews is markless.

They’re the same age –something Alex forgets, and he thinks Willy forgets it too ( it’s _easy_ to forget when life is counted in seasons, in goals, in assists, in _ability_ and not years ).

“I dunno why Willy wanted us to bond over being bondless.” Auston says, and Alex rolls his eyes, makes a sound of agreement that half sounds like laughter too.

They end up talking about hockey and Europe and Willy’s laugh instead.

Alex comes away with Auston’s number and a better understanding of what the something else in Willy’s voice is.

…

They don’t really text. They don’t really talk at all beyond the courteous ‘good game’ remarks, honestly. Whatever _this_ is with Auston absolutely pales to the technological path he and Willy carve through time: text and Skype and late night calls that are sometimes a little drunkenly slurred.

So he doesn’t know what makes him text Auston. Actually, it’s probably the drinks he’s been having because Sweden is fucking _awesome_. And maybe he wants someone to know; someone he trusts, but not someone he’s ever really going to see. Auston fits the bill even though Alex doesn’t really know him; Willy trusts him, and somehow that’s good enough. For drunk Alex, anyway.

You’re always braver with alcohol in your veins and a screen between you and reality.

‘ _u kno. im not actually markless’_ he texts and promptly falls asleep.

He doesn’t remember that he does this when he wakes up.

In fact, he doesn’t remember at all until months later when he’s called up from the Amerks right at the end of the season.

“What did you mean,” Auston says carefully, when they’re alone and Alex is waiting for Willy, “when you said you weren’t markless.”

Auston looks surprisingly tactful, hands pushed deep in pockets as he stares at Alex with that kinda _dead_ and tired stare. Alex remains silent for a moment, doesn’t know what makes him tug Auston to the privacy of the bathroom, leather bracelets curling on the counter by the sink, gauze unwrapped.

Three crowns in a neat row, a little broken now by a white scar.

“Oh.” says Auston like everything makes sense now in the fluorescent lights of an arena bathroom. Alex wants to cover it, unused to seeing it in such bright lights; unaccustomed to other eyes being set on it.

“Why—“ says Auston.

“You know _why_.” snaps Alex, maybe a bit harsher than necessary.

Auston looks contemplative or maybe tired or maybe that’s just his face, but finally says, “You should tell him –trust me, Alex. You should tell him”

“Yeah right.”

“No, Alex wait—“

He grabs his bracelets from the counter and leaves before Auston can say anything else.

…

The Leafs are knocked from playoffs in game six of the first round, and Alex feels Willy’s disappointment like it’s his own. He’s even sympathetic enough to break his radio silence with Auston to text some generic condolence. Though he still ignores the cryptic ‘ _did you do it’_ text that follows after the ‘ _thanks.’_

…

Willy goes to Sweden with plans to represent their country in Worlds ( _theirs_ even though they were not born on its soil ). Alex trails in his wake not too long afterwards, without the plans of grandeur, only seeking the warmth of familiarity and the slow syrupy days of summer.

But it’s not time for that. Not yet.

They follow Willy to Cologne too, and they’re _there_ ; _he’s_ there when Sweden finally takes gold from beneath Canada’s feet and the euphoria swells in the arena in a deafening roar. He’s there to watch it unfold before his eyes and to wish that he weren’t up there in the bleachers just watching.

He hates the way it taints the pride he feels, this undercurrent of bitter emotion he doesn’t want. Because this is _Willy_ , and Alex doesn’t think there’s anyone he loves more.

( But Willy’s always been better than him, hasn’t he? )

…

Sweden wins gold and Willy comes home, finally.

They’re all _home_ , together.

…

Alex feels it when it happens. Pain, pain, pain –the blackout kind that makes his vision go blurry and knocks air from his lungs until he’s gasping desperately for breath. People are calling his name, asking what’s wrong, and _oh_ , Alex knows, he _knows_ and rasps his brother’s name through gritted teeth, body curled in around himself.

He’s heard the stories, seen the studies and movies and countless articles concerning the soulmate caught in the backlash of a life-threatening situation. But this is far worse than he’s ever imagined.

There’s soft grass beneath his fingers but all he feels is the unforgiving surface of concrete and the crunch of metal and the _pain_ that seems to flare everywhere.

_Oh god. Willy._

When he finally does black out, it's with Willy’s name on his tongue.

…

When he wakes up, he’s in the car on the way to the hospital, the situation revealed to him in hushed whispers from Jackie.

Willy was in a car crash on the way back from a friend’s house, and _Alex you knew before everyone, even the emergency responders._ Jackie looks at him meaningfully at that.

Alex doesn’t respond, rubs at his temples that still throb, winces at the aches still present in his limbs. He should care that after all these careful years people will start to guess; but _doesn’t_ care if it’s not a secret anymore because it’s _Willy_.

And for him he’d do anything.

…

He falls asleep in the chair next to Willy’s hospital bed.

One sleeve of the hospital gown has been pushed up a little, one of the crowns glaring starkly back at him. Alex rubs his fingers against the bones of his wrist, absentmindedly tracing the line of the mark that matches the one on his brother’s shoulder.

There’s a horrible pit in his stomach seeing Willy like this, like some port of him being ripped away. And he supposes that kinda is what’s happening –that’s what the matching crowns dictate, right?

So he wonders, worries, refuses to leave –Jackie does the talking for him, and Alex is thankful for that.

…

They don’t really talk about it when Willy’s finally discharged, and Alex gets the feeling that Willy is coming to terms with something –has finally guessed at the secret Alex has spent a third of his life keeping. And inevitably, late one night there’s a knock on his bedroom door.

Willy’s never knocked before.

Alex is silent from his spot on his bed, knows what conversation will come if he opens the door –and it’s hard to break a habit of years and years and years. It would be so _easy_ to leave it closed; it _is_ so easy. “Alex, _please_.” Willy sounds forlorn on the other side and Alex hates it. He screws his eyes shut and waits the long minutes for the soft footsteps of Willy’s retreat.

He tries to sleep, but ends up staring at the ceiling instead --thinking _what if_ and letting guilt fester in his gut. He gives it an hour of tangling thoughts and nails digging into his wrist before he’s pushing himself from the mattress, quietly tracing the familiar path to Willy’s bedroom. He too knocks, more to warn his presence than to ask for permission though. The door swings open with familiar ease, Alex slipping inside with movements worn with time.

Willy’s still awake, face glowing from the light of his phone and bedside lamp casting a gentle golden light. He watches Alex, something like relief blossoming on features.

Alex sits gingerly on the edge of Willy’s bed, not quite looking at him; the _thud_ of his heartbeat loud in the quiet room.

“Dad said you know.” Willy prompts quietly. “Before everyone. How –how did you know?”

Alex stares at a worn spot in his pajama bottoms, shoulders curved in, hair falling to curtain eyes. He still doesn’t say anything, stares at his hands instead –at the ratty leather bracelets that have survived the years. “Alex _please_ .” Willy begs beside him, and Alex realizes he’s _tired_ –tired of pretending, of lying, of seeing Willy’s face and _knowing_.

It’s almost robotically that he picks at the knots in the string and leather, slowly –too slowly perhaps.

He can hear the sharp intake of breath beside him when the last layer falls away, the strip of cloth hiding all the lies slipping silently to the floor. He stares at his bare wrist, at the crowns long branded into his retinas, and still cannot look Willy in the eye.

“Alex—“ Willy breathes, and Alex cannot bear to hear what he has to say –what he’ll hear in his brother’s voice and see in his eyes. He doesn’t want to learn what he learned in that locker room all those years ago: that he was _right_.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, arm drawn close to his body, spine a curve of shame.

“ _Alex—“_

“God, I’m so sorry, Willy. I—“ Sorry for their soulmarks, sorry he kept it a secret all these years, sorry he tried to cut it out, sorry he’s been the source of so much _pain_ –sorry, sorry, _sorry_. He doesn’t realize he’s crying, really, until there’s dampness trickling down his cheek and dripping onto the black outline of crowns broken by a scar he put there years ago.

“ _Alex—_ “ There’s a hand on his wrist, fingers gentle across the mark, tracing the slightly raised scar.

Oh, it’s almost a relief when arms wrap around him, firm, tugging him toward a familiar embrace. His spine is stiff, shoulders taunt as Willy draws him in, because he doesn’t deserve this after all the things he’s done. But Willy has gentle hands when he wants too, encases Alex in a warmth he didn’t know he needed. It _breaks_ something in him, some wall he didn’t even know he was building with every lie, every bracelet, every morning he looked and hated what he saw on his wrist.

He sniffles into Willy’s shoulder for far too long, arms wrapped around his frame, fingers clinging and shoulders desperately trying not to shake. Willy doesn’t say anything, merely holds him and muses with the ends of his hair, humming some Swedish lullaby he hasn’t heard in quite some time.

And Alex shuts his eyes, and thinks _yeah,_ maybe they were made for this; they  _do_ kinda complete each other.

He doesn’t know how long he stays, how long fingers clutch at the fabric of Willy’s shirt and Willy lets him cling. But it feels simultaneously a fleeting second and a blissful eternity before Willy speaks again, quiet, hesitant. “Alex, _Alex_ –look at me, _please_.” He finds the will to look up finally, eyes watery, afraid of what he might see. Willy eyes are kind, which is more than he deserves. “I’m glad it’s you, Alex.”

He rubs a thumb across the triple crowns on this wrist that match the ones on Willy’s shoulder and manages a smile at that, a little wobby, but genuine.

Something clicks. _They_ click; they always have.

They’re complete.

“Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed my first Nylander Bros fic!! There is a sequel in the works, though I can't speak for when it'll be coming around. Feel free to come chat with me on my [tumblr](http://thenylanderbros.tumblr.com)! Lastly, thanks so much for reading. Comments and critique are greatly appreciated!!


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